


Dance With the Devil

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, Enemy Lovers, F/M, Femdom, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:51:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abaddon raises the whip and cracks it in the air experimentally, Dean’s eyes following the movement with the same hungry anticipation she’s feeling herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance With the Devil

She’s already waiting for him when he arrives, leaning against the far wall of the living room of the old abandoned house. She’s clad in black leather that hugs her body like a second skin, accentuating her sinuous curves, and her red hair cascades over her shoulders in wild waves. She’s all about appearances, and she likes the appreciation she sees in his eyes.

“Gotta admit, you look good in leather,” Dean closes the door behind him, latches it, pulls out a bag of salt from the duffel he’s got slung over his shoulder and finishes the salt line, then repaints the Devil’s Traps under each window and in front of the door, so no demon can get inside.

No demon but her.

“I feel it fits me, being the new Queen of Hell and all,” Abaddon muses out loud as she watches him check the room for any hexbags or other possible dangers. He’s thorough, as if this was the first time they were doing this. He’s always thorough, always cautious.

But then, so is she. “Your turn now,” she says when Dean’s finally satisfied, having made sure that there is no foul play going on.

He pulls out his handgun from the waistband of his jeans and slowly, no sudden movements, places it on the floor by the door, in the middle of the Devil’s Trap so she can’t take it and use it against him. The gun is soon followed by a small revolver, a large hunting knife and two switchblades, one of them silver.

“You always go out with an arsenal like that?” She still hasn’t moved yet, but she follows him with her eyes, not caring that she’s betraying her excitement and impatience. They’re long past hiding things from each other.

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Gotta be careful.”

He takes several steps forward, stopping halfway to her. She finally pushes herself from the wall and covers the rest of the distance between them in several firm steps.

There’s no preamble, just lips pressing against lips, tongues sliding inside hot mouths, teeth biting and drawing blood and moans. She runs her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer and not being gentle about it at all, and he responds by palming the firm flesh of her ass.

The kiss ends as abruptly as it began. She pushes Dean away roughly, making him stumble a few steps back. “How about we move things forward a bit?”

He lets out a loud, easy laugh. “You’re always so impatient.” But he’s already taking off his jacket.

“So are you,” she points at the bulge in his jeans.

“Touché.” He strips quickly, efficiently, no teasing. Teasing is for horny teenagers or enamored couples. They are neither.

Abaddon definitely appreciates the view, though. Dean’s all lean and wiry, with well-defined muscles, but he’s not buffed like those men who spend all their free time at the gym without ever having to do any real hard work in their lives. Dean’s earned his muscles the hard way, through fighting and running and digging graves, his body the body of a soldier who spent his whole life in the trenches.

She wasn’t lying when she told Dean she’s loved his body since the first moment she saw it. And she could’ve made good on her threat and possessed it. She doesn’t want to, though. It’s much better when she can have it freely, because he allows it.

“Now _I’m_ impatient,” his slightly amused voice rouses her from her musing. He’s grinning at her, all cocky and shameless, because he knows how much she likes watching him.

That’s fine. He has his tricks and she’s got hers. A whole bag of them.

She opens the bag that’s lying at her feet, makes sure he can see what’s inside, gives him a moment of uncertainty – which tool she’s going to pick? – before she takes the whip. It’s one of his favorites, after all, and who is she to deny him his pleasure? Especially since it’s her pleasure, too.

He swallows, the sound unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent room.

Abaddon raises the whip and cracks it in the air experimentally, Dean’s eyes following the movement with the same hungry anticipation she’s feeling herself.

“Where’s Crowley?” She asks like she always does, although she never really expects an answer.

He cocks one eyebrow in amusement. “You know I’m not gonna tell you. And anyway, that’s not why we’re here.”

“True.”

Without having to be told, Dean moves to position, standing in the wide door leading to the bedroom, facing away from her, legs apart for better balance. He spreads his arms and grips the doorframe tightly. “Ready.”

Abaddon lets the whip fall immediately, watches it raise a red welt on Dean’s broad shoulders. He tenses, but doesn’t make a sound.

She lets the whip fall again, and again, coaxing the sounds out of him, until he grunts at each new blow, fingers white on the doorframe, until he lets the screams out, hoarse and raw and free.

She could really hurt him, cause more damage than could be fixed. She’s strong enough for that. But she doesn’t, and that’s why he comes.

They talked about it at the beginning. No permanent scars. No serious damage. Or this ends. So she’s careful. Thankfully she’s had lots of practice, and she knows how to cause maximum of pain while causing minimum of damage. She doesn’t even break his skin.

“Harder,” he says, the first words either of them utters in a long while. It’s barely audible.

“You want me to go harder?” She walks over to stand right behind him, pressing her still fully clothed body into him, the leather of her jacket rough against the welts on his back. He shudders at the contact, but keeps his position.

Rising on her tiptoes, she fists one hand in his hair – yeah, she has a thing for his hair, it’s thick and spiky and just begging to be pulled – and yanks his head back, bites him on the neck, drawing a hoarse moan out of him. “If you want something, you should ask nicely. Say please.”

He could say no, refuse her the satisfaction of hearing him beg. He’s strong enough for that. But he doesn’t, and that’s why she comes.

“Go harder, please,” he says easily, unashamed. “Please.”¨

She can’t deny him anything when he begs like that. He’s naked and already weakened and practically defenseless against her, but still he has this power over her. She’s the one who’s helpless.

“Please,” he repeats, louder this time, more desperate. He’s sounding out of breath from the delicious mixture of pain and arousal.

“Don’t worry, lover,” she whispers into his ear and reaches around him with one hand, finding his cock hard and leaking. She gives it a few firm strokes, just because she can and because he lets her, before letting go of him and stepping back. “I know what you need.”

She brings the whip down on his back, using more strength this time, and she’s rewarded with a loud, clear scream.

It’s easy to fall back into a familiar rhythm, it’s like her body works on its own, so she doesn’t have to concentrate on the mechanics of what she’s doing. Instead, she focuses her full attention to him, and this _thing_ that is between them.

There’s lust and desire, has been from the moment they first met, but they’re still enemies, so of course there’s animosity, too, and in a way, hatred, even. But that’s not all there is. They’re both professionals, secure in what they do, and they have no problem admitting the other one is good at their job, too, so there’s also mutual respect.

Maybe that’s what brings them both here.

The sad truth is that demons are boring. They function only in black and white. They only know stubbornly mindless defiance born out of overconfidence, or equally mindless obeisance born out of fear. They don’t understand that submission doesn’t have to mean weakness and dominance doesn’t have to mean strength.

Dean is not like them.

And actually, he is the one who holds the power here, strange as it might sound. He surrenders his strength willingly, that’s the key to this game. Abaddon could take what she wanted from him even against his will, but then the game would be over, the balance would be gone, the trust would be broken. All this would never work without his consent. She could never make him obey if he didn’t want to in the first place.

His screams are different now, uninhibited, coming from some dark corner in the depths of his twisted soul. She loves to hear those screams, is thankful that he allows her to hear them. There’s so much strength in him, so much self-control, and she gets to be the one to watch him shatter and fall apart, she gets to taste his strength, even though it’s only borrowed, because it can never be taken from him.

Another scream is ripped out from Dean’s throat, then all his muscles lock up for a moment before he relaxes them again, and she can tell he’s just come.

She throws the whip aside. “Let go of the doorframe,” she orders, and watches him obey with some difficulty, his movements stiff as he releases his grip and lets his hands hang freely at his sides.

She slips past him, stands in front of him to examine his face, flushed and streaked with tears. But he meets her gaze with a silent demand for more. Incredible.

“They really did a number on you in Hell,” she observes in wonder, turning her attention to his spent cock.

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry to break it to you, but I was pretty fucked up in the head even before my stay down in the Pit. ‘S just the way I am.”

She runs one finger through the warm, sticky come on his flat stomach, brings the finger to her lips and licks it off slowly with a moan, putting on a show for him.

He groans and his cock starts to fill again.

She sucks on her fingertip once more, and he groans, sounding plaintive. She likes to hear those sounds when she has her lips wrapped around his cock and a couple of fingers up his ass and he’s all desperate and out of his mind because he’s not allowed to come. And he _could_ come, she never uses cock rings or handcuffs or anything like that with him, the only kind of restraint on Dean's actions being his own will to carry out her wishes.

She can't wait to see him like that again. But she has other things on her mind now, after all, a girl has her needs, too. “Get on the bed, on your back.” The rough old sheets are going to chafe his back, and he’s going to love it when she rides him hard and fast, chasing her own pleasure, using his body just like she promised. Just like he asked her to.

She gets rid of her clothes quickly, then climbs onto the bed and straddles him, sinks onto his cock in one go and starts moving. “You can touch.”

Those perfect lips curl into a devilish grin. “Of course I can. You love my hands on you.”

And she does, even though she shouldn’t, the way Dean touches her isn’t something she would usually like. He’s too gentle, too sensitive, too attentive. But for some reason, his rough, calloused hands with all those small scars and slightly bent fingers and chipped nails bring Abaddon more pleasure than anything else she remembers.

They find their release at the same time, her manicured fingers clawing parallel marks into the skin of his chest, his large, warm palms firm yet still gentle around her waist.

She crumples on top of him, breathing hard. Her hair is sticking to his sweat-slick skin.

“I should just chain you up and keep you,” she says after a while, when they’re laying side by side, her head resting on his arm, both cooling off.

He turns his head to look at her, unafraid. “And where would the fun be in that?”

She has nothing to say to that, so she remains silent and ignores his smug, amused smirk.

“How about a beer?” He asks suddenly, already sitting up. She watches him walk out of the room and then come back with two bottles in his hands. He uncaps both before handing one to her and sitting on the edge of the bed. She sits next to him, their bodies touching shoulder to thigh.

The beer is cool and bitter. He always brings her the good stuff. “Perfect.”

“Yeah.”

Abaddon watches Dean take a long pull from his bottle and the sight of his lips wrapped around the neck ignites a new spark of desire inside her. Absently, she notes that she really should find a temporary male meatsuit just so she could watch him suck her off. Or fuck him with something else than her fingers or a strap-on.

She tells him, and he doesn’t seem surprised or shocked at all. Not that she was expecting it. He’s a pretty kinky bastard, and coming from a Knight of Hell, that really means something.

Some time passes in silence. There’s no way to tell what he’s thinking about, but she’s got enough on her mind already.

“Have you ever considered becoming a demon?” She’s been meaning to ask him for some time now, the idea spinning in her head since that moment she first realized what kind of a man he really was, how much she could gain by having him on her side.

He raises one eyebrow at her questioningly. “You mean like going through Hell again? Yeah, really tempting.” His voice is dripping sarcasm.

“No, I don’t mean like that.” She really shouldn’t be telling him this. “You know about Lilith, right? Originally human, then became the first demon thanks to Lucifer. But she didn’t become a demon through suffering in Hell. It was because she wanted to, and because she already had darkness in her soul. So he made a demon out of her. It’s how I became a demon, too.”

She has Dean’s attention, he’s listening with interest. Maybe that interest is professional, maybe personal. She hopes – would pray, if she knew how – for the latter.

“Us old demons, we have enough power to do what Lucifer did. If the human in question is dark enough.” She runs her hand down his back, pressing into the welts with her nails, and he draws a sharp intake of breath, his eyes widening in a new wave of arousal. “You have that darkness inside you.”

He doesn’t attempt to deny it. It would be pointless to lie both to her and to himself.

“If you say yes, I could make you one of us,” she goes on, trying to sound seductive but it comes out almost hopeful.

Dean laughs, then stops and finally shock appears on his face when he realizes she’s serious. “Huh?” Is all he says, and this is the first time she’s ever seen him at loss for words.

She mustn’t screw it up now. “You have the strongest will I’ve ever seen, you’re ruthless and purposeful, and you’re smart.” He starts to shake his head, protesting, but she doesn’t let him interrupt her. “You are. You think outside the box, and you never take no for an answer. I could really use someone like you at my side. As Queen and King, we would be unstoppable.”

“Wow.” He licks his lips self-consciously. “Didn’t see that coming.” He shakes his head like he still can’t believe it. “And frankly, I’m kinda flattered. But you gotta know my answer’s not gonna be yes.” It’s as simple as that.

Now it’s Abaddon’s turn to be speechless.

Dean’s looking at her, all serious and unexpectedly cold, and she’s suddenly reminded of who he is, who she is, who they are. “I’m a hunter. You’re a demon.” His voice is hard and matter-of-fact, and it sends shivers down her spine. “Once we figure out a way to kill you permanently, I’ll be the one to pull the trigger.”

Rationally, she knew, of course she knew. His refusal still hurts, though, and although she tries to cover it with a careless shrug, she’s sure he can see right through her. To make the unpleasant feeling go away, she looks for anger instead. “Once we get our hands on Crowley and that Prophet, I’ll be the one to break your neck.”

To give her words more weight, she uses her powers on him, immobilizing him for just a second to remind him – or herself? – just who he’s dealing with.

He laughs, calm and composed, and when she releases her grip on him, he clinks his bottle with hers. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

Abaddon sighs, then nods and shakes off the feeling of disappointment. “Alright. But it was worth a try.”

“I’m always worth it,” he leers at her, and it’s clear that this conversation’s over for him. Then he’s taking the beer bottle from her hand, placing it aside, and his lips are on hers, his tongue slipping inside her mouth. He kisses the same way he touches her – smooth and fluid and thorough, all attention on her.

The almost romantic way he treats her is in stark contrast with the way she treats him, but then again, maybe it isn’t. They both crave what the other has to offer, and they can’t get it anywhere else, because nobody else sees those deep, hidden desires inside their souls. They’re a perfect match.

She hoped it would be enough to draw him to her side, but apparently, the pleasure she gives him isn’t enticing enough for him, isn’t strong enough to break through Dean’s sense of duty and righteousness or whatever it is that makes him tick.

Dean breaks the kiss to look at her, and there are laugh wrinkles around his eyes, but his look is not warm. It’s cold and mocking, so unlike his touch. “Aw, Abby baby, don’t be sad.”

She slaps him hard, her hand leaving a red print on his cheek. “Don’t call me that.”

He bows his head, lowers his gaze. “Sorry, my Queen.” He sounds all submissive again, but now more than ever she’s aware that this is just a game to him, obviously more than it is to her. Maybe he's been playing her the whole time, secretly laughing behind her back. “Let me make it up to you?” 

“Better make it good.”

“Don’t I always?”

So Abaddon lets him place hot, wet kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, watches him flick out his tongue and run the tip across her instantly hardening nipple, arches her back and moans in pleasure when his mouth closes around the sensitive bud and he starts sucking.

Soon she wants more, and she lets him know by spreading her legs and pushing him down until he’s kneeling on the floor, licking his own come out of her together with her own juices, like he’s starving for anything she wants to give him. Like there’s her and only her.

She’s never seen anything like it, never met anyone like him, never had anyone like him before.

But apparently she doesn’t really have him now, either. He’s not hers, and he never will be, she knows that now. Dean belongs to his brother, and to that fallen angel, and to all that Abaddon is fighting against.

When dawn comes, Dean and Abaddon will go their separate ways, the temporary truce between them over and the war back in full force.

Until the next time they meet here again or until one of them is dead.

END


End file.
